Hope remained silent. She knew Carol needed to vent. Telling the story might help heal the wound.
“I had already decided to find a new school system,” Carol said. “So, moving was going to be easy. It will be easy. I just wanted you to know.”
“I’m sure you’ll find the right place,” Hope said. “Every school needs good teachers.”
Carol stayed another half hour, talking about the new school she would join, the new life she would seek. Hope didn’t hurry the woman. By the end, Hope felt sorry for her. Carol had invested much of her life in Clive, and Clive had been a bust. There was no return. Carol was moving on, with diminished assets. Life could be cruel that way.
After Carol left, Hope went about fixing dinner. She didn’t need to make much since Cori was living large in Hawaii. A salad, some wine, a book to read while she ate. She had just finished when the doorbell rang.
Who wanted her now? With a sigh, she padded to the front door and opened it.
“May I come in?” the woman asked.
“Of course, Ms. Mayor,” Hope answered.
16
Hope led Mayor Jean Teach into the living room.
“Can I get you something?” Hope asked.
Jean shook her head. “I just wanted to chat for a moment.”
Jean’s flaming red hair was perfectly styled. Hope guessed that Jean was fifty or so. She was in good shape, pretty with green eyes and full lips. She must have been a knockout in her teens, and even now, she was still a very attractive woman. Hope understood why Clive would chase the mayor.
“What’s on your mind?” Hope asked.
“What’s on everyone’s mind,” she answered. “Clive Thomas. If the man wasn’t a nuisance while alive, he certainly is now that he’s dead.” She paused. “But I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
Hope almost laughed at the comment, since she lived with the dead.
“Why are women such fools?” the mayor asked. “We know when things are bad for us, and yet, we listen to the words and look into the eyes, and suddenly our brains turn to mush. I swear, sometimes, I don’t think I have the sense of a two-year-old.”
“We’re all emotional,” Hope said. “You shouldn’t apologize for being human.”
“Being human is forgivable. Being stupid, not so much. But you’re not my confessor, and I don’t want to open too many cans of worms. So, I’ll ask directly. Can you tell me if Clive said anything about me?”
“I can tell you that he never mentioned your name to me, but we only spoke briefly at his restaurant about his ancestors for a project I’m working on.”
“Are you certain? Because, Clive was not above dropping names if he had to. That was how we got involved, you know. He needed a zoning variance, and well, I was the leverage he had to recruit. He cooed, and I fell, and he got his variance. After that, he stopped coming by so often. I was more than a little used.”
Hope couldn’t help but wonder if the mayor felt used enough to kill Clive. Or, maybe, Clive had threatened to disclose the mayor’s role in the variance. What did it take to turn Jean into a killer? Was she strong enough to wrap Christmas lights around a man’s neck and strangle him?
“I hope you didn’t do anything illegal to get him the variance,” Hope said.
“I’m not that stupid. I merely put my thumb on the scales, but that left me open to pressure.”
“Did Clive threaten you?”
“In so many words? No. But he let me know that he was not above asking for more favors. That made me angry enough to kill him, but I didn’t do it.”
“If I may ask, where were you on Christmas eve?”
“At home, with my dog. My husband and the children were coming Christmas day. So, no, I do not have an alibi. Not that I need one. I didn’t do anything that would send me to jail.”
“But it could be a stain on your record.”
Jean chuckled. “I’ve done the math. I’m the mayor of a small town. The stepping stones to, let’s say, governor, start with state representative for some years, and then state senator for a few more years. I would need all the right committees and chairmanships, all the right allies in the party. That’s a minimum of a fifteen-year effort, with no guarantee of success. I’m a realist, although you wouldn’t figure that out after what happened with Clive. A stain on my record won’t make one whit of difference.”
“I understand. And, as far as I’m concerned, you were the victim of your own heart.”
“Actually, I blame my husband, who decided that a year-long teaching gig in Montana would suit him just fine. He thought it would be good for the marriage to change things up for a while.”
Hope wondered about the mayor. Why would she place the blame anywhere except where it belonged? Blaming a husband for one’s failures or mistakes wasn’t something Hope subscribed to.
“I have to go,” Jean said. “I wanted to cover the bases.”
“Because Clive was known to talk too much?” Hope asked.
“There is that. All politicians practice damage control. If you stuff your skeletons in a closet, eventually, they’re going to march out. Better to bury them early.”
They reached the door.
“May I ask you a question,” Hope asked.
“I’ll answer if I can,” Jean replied.
“Did Clive ever mention a secret stash of money he had? Did he say there was some kind of treasure around?”
“Of course, he did. Men like him need to impress women, and what impresses a woman more than a boatload of money? I’ve known more than my fair share of men who bragged about the money they didn’t have.”
With that, Jean walked out into the gathering dark. While Hope liked the redhead, she knew about politicians and the truth. They sometimes trimmed the truth down to the smallest iota that would cause the least amount of trouble. But it was good to know that Clive bragged about the money to everyone he wooed. Jean was probably right. He was just trying to impress.
After dinner, Hope made a cup of tea and hiked up to her office. She was determined to discover another password in the screenplay. She had barely opened up the file, when Max arrived.
“Good evening, Mrs. Herring.”
“Good evening, Max.”
“You’ve had a busy afternoon.”
“Indeed, I have. The wife of the dead man on the porch, and the mayor of the town coming for a chat. While they both shared information, I’m afraid I’m no closer to solving the murder than I was before.”
“You’ll figure it out. I finished the journals, and I’m afraid I did not discover anything momentous. However, you might find something in the journal of Amy Wainwright. She was a close friend of Veronica Ellison. There are some entries that are interesting, even if they don’t describe my murder.”
“Care to share?”
“No, no, I think the items are best left uninterpreted, if you understand what I mean. I don’t want to influence your opinion.”
“I understand, and I’ll be sure to read the journal.”
“In that case, good night.”
“Good night, Max.”